91. Friendly Meeting

“Hm, there are quite a lot we missed with our flyers…” I noted while studying the map of Zangarmarsh given to us by Primus Msshi'fn.

A very murloc-sounding name, not surprising given that murloc language was ancient and shared roots directly with Kalimag. 

It was this old, and the fish people were likely one of the first races born of the elements, like the proto-dragons. 

The older a language was, the closer it was to the source, besides Common, which was likely a product of the Titans, as it was alien in many ways and too continuous. But even then, languages were living constructs. Orcish shared a lot of that, too, based on what the spirits said and what I saw.

They shifted and mutated over time; nonetheless, only Kalimag was all and none at once, as dictated by the elements. It wasn't so much a language as the foundation of matters. I was no linguist, however, so what did I know beyond biased guesses?

Anyway, with both this map and the Wild's, we gained a better understanding of the terrain around both outside and below. The sporelings weren't kobolds, but they used caves and dug tunnels to go around unnoticed.

Many of those were unusable, and it wasn't just the size difference alone that allowed kobolds to slip in with ease. However, many had collapsed, some were submerged, and in some cases, both at once.

The reasons varied, but the point was that they were limited in use, yet they were enough to get something without being overly obvious.

We weren't going to be discreet in our assault after all, but the initial phase was going to be quite the surprise. And on that front, we were mostly done.

It was nothing mind-boggling, a series of traps, choke points, and covers. We were superior in virtually all that counted, barring mages and warlocks, with an obvious disadvantage in water.

The latter of which was the greatest, as poisoning the Serpent Lake wasn't a possibility even in the war room. The Coilfang Reservoir was a fortress, but like any machine, it could break.

It was a pump or something analogous to it; the difference, for most, didn't have importance. 

It was still heavily magical; the water drained was likely teleported or stored in reserve, ignoring pesky details like volume.

We weren't goblins, and our understanding of metal-mechanical technology was limited. But clogging the pipelines with the local mycelium population and substrates was grasped. It didn't require a genius to understand that.

We weren't aiming to blow it up from the beginning; there were slaves inside. It was better to try to save them than to do nothing.

A distraction at best, or a potential for critical facility failures, ultimately, it would be our initial assault, as the drains were naturally heavily guarded.

It cannot be said that we underestimated our enemies. Attacking was far harder than defending, and on this scale, even more so. 

Nagas were the worst from the kaldorei of old, or if not their direct descendants, they doubled down on their sins compared to our kaldorei, who went as far as possible the other direction. Their empire wasn't as hidden as they liked to believe; it was cheating, but all is fair in love and war.

And the acute danger wasn't unique to the fairer sex; all used magic. Perhaps the males did it differently, but they weren't inept—just worse at it. 

What was worse for a combatant, even a minimally clever naga witch, amounted to a lot. Mages were really nasty to deal with.

Nevertheless, my part wasn't directly involved in those aspects of the plan. I was more direct, using the intel gathered by the kobolds in the Coilfang Reservoir to attack the place itself.

I wasn't alone, but I was going to fight, not babysit, as I always seemed to do in any conflict. Or, well, it felt like it, but when you heal and revive constantly in battle, it was pretty much that.

And I had grown tired of this necessary task. I desired a proper way to let go without concern about my allies' unparalleled talent to dismember themselves in novel manners. And the scale of the battle here let me act like this.

Oh, many didn't like that; our culture was warrior-like, probably more so than the Horde on some points. However, one of your leaders going alone was never something you wanted. 

But my words were laws, and unless the place was blown out in a mana nuke equivalent or my head was vaporized… I wouldn’t die. Or it wouldn't stick, and I put myself back into life some time later. 

Many organs that had been vital were no longer, due to redundancies and alterations. 

Why have one heart when you can have six? Although it was not entirely for nothing on a technical level, I was huge, and secondary hearts were needed. It was hard to fear for one's life.

And they knew it; yet their duty was to protect me, so they would have to fulfill their sworn duty by coordinating our raid to the closest approximation to a fabled perfection. It was the best they could.

So, hours later, the attack plan was unfolding, and we worked fast, but I wasn't there holding the strings in the background.

I worked best with my claws in the warm guts of my enemies.

I mentally cheered for them, though, as I swam at the bottom of the lake in my ottuk form. I gracefully slipped between rocks, mud, and mycelium algae equivalents.

It was funny, really; nagas were like harpies, but instead of never looking up, they never gazed back under. That was a weakness that was fully exploited, but they would soon spot me, no matter what.

They had more than eyes for their senses, and it was proven true when I was around a hundred meters from the underwater foundation of the Reservoir. 

I was spotted, hard not to when I was the size of a small whale, but simultaneously the ground shook as the current went wild and the water became cloudy with spore and silt. 

Both were choking hazards for the nagas, who, still processing my arrival, had the vines and roots exploding forth from my body, shredding their skins and scales by their thorns or sheer friction.

The toxins inside were merely a bonus. Wounds needn't be fatal to be of use; they rarely killed–well, outside of me to smaller foes or anyone in a similar boat–but it turned them into harmless cripples.

The cocktails of nastiness would do the rest in minutes, hours, or even days for the unluckiest, and at this point, it wouldn't be my venom directly at fault. 

Naga's biology was beyond bizarre. I didn't have the perfect liquid death for them. If it even existed in a non-magical form.

As such, there was a bit of everything, affecting everything, at the cost of sheer lethality.

But again, killing wasn't the goal; it was a happy accident compared to putting my foes out of the fight. It did its job well, allowing me to avoid wasting time on those snakes.

Ten or so seconds later, I reached my destination and slipped my way inside through a cave opening encircled by alloy. One mapped earlier by our kobolds, who played fish and crustaceans in a masquerade.

I was blind here, but echolocalisation compensated fine. I knew where I was and where to proceed, so I did, but even in the chaos, I didn't pass stealthily.

Hard to.

Yet, to my surprise, I wasn't attacked; of course, that wasn't shocking in and of itself. 

Those were people, and nobody wished to die, but they were warriors first, and the kind to slit their own throats if their superior demanded.

I expected that they would have sacrificed themselves; instead, they fled.

Well, perhaps the word didn't fit as they were likely retreating to more useful positions instead of becoming mince meat, failing to stop me. But it certainly looked like that from my point of view.

I attacked where I could; regardless, they were no different in my eyes than satyrs.

My sweet bloodthirsty vorpal bees swarmed around. They stabbed slotted pupils, tore gills up, and shredded throats. Whether the nagas died or not was again not my concern; they were out for the foreseeable future.

As such, my only enemy was my poor sense of direction in that labyrinth of bronze pipes, glowing blue crystals, bridges, ramps, water vapor, and confusing smells. It was a strange alien place, and I hated it.

I got a map, and it was a great map, but I wasn't very great at using it. 

Not that this lost me much time, a few minutes at best. I just skipped over the forest of machines and contraptions I could neither name, tell apart, nor explain the purposes of. I wasn't in my element.

And to think as a human in my old world, this would be ordinary, if anything. Humans were above and beyond any tech here when regular physics was involved.

This aside, I killed nagas left and right, but ignored fallens, which were easy to spot, being the in-between of lost ones and draenei. They made for a sad sight.

‘Can't believe how fucked over they got…’ I mused, leaping above a group huddled together in abject terror from my arrival. I threw them a quick series of spells and vanished.

It was basic stuff to get them back in somewhat good shape, but that was about it. Saving them properly was for the following squad of adventurers, as well as looting and taking whatever caught their fancy.

I was here for blood, and I will have it, so my advance continued, but as big as the Coilfang Reservoir was. 

It was close to a city in total superficy, but the master or well mistress of such a place wasn't going to be somewhere inconspicuous. 

A fact proven by the progressive shift of the artificial environment toward something less brutally industrial, to a palace reminiscent of what the glory of ancient kaldorei ruins once had.

Extravagant seashells, carved skeletons, bioluminescent corals, and magically bound aquatic plants were everywhere. 

They served as integral materials and decorative elements in sculptures, fountains, murals, walls, floors, ceilings, and pillars.

“Isn't that quite the pretty place?” I rumbled, but that wasn't full of sarcasm aside from the arts being very self-centered or imagery of Illidan. Some of which were very explicit, the deeper I went, as in very.

I could see someone's obsession. Anyone would reach the same conclusion here, to be frank.

It wasn't ugly by any means, perhaps a bit overdone, but eh, could be worse, and I wasn't here to criticize the interior decor. 

The artist, who, by our interrogation, was a certain Vashj, was skilled, with a heavy focus on both small and not-so-small details. If some parts were true or as they truly were, it was a mystery, but the end product showed generous things.

I was only passing through, and at this point, my nose was locked on the smell of her magic; she was the strongest mage, and that had a distinct stink. 

I was preparing myself for the take-down to be brutal and swift. Mages were unpredictable, with infinite options, and she would be among the best alive by virtue of age alone.

Vashj wasn't some unknown name; she never was as famous as, for example, Xavius, but her name was noted in history and couldn't be ignored. 

The handmaidens of Azshara weren't simple servants and walking pieces of jewelry; they were few in number and served as advisors, guards, and much more. They were whatever the megalomaniac bitch queen wished them to be, but they would pour their life into it.

If she were still in that social circle, it wasn't important. She was dangerous, and I wasn't aiming to simply kill her; I, along with some in the Wild Council, wanted to understand what Illidan aimed to do.

It wasn't gentle diplomacy, but Malfurion's twin wasn't deemed responsive to gentleness.

Yet I suddenly froze as another entered my nostrils.

A demon, yet not, the sulfuric and acidic touch of Fel was evident, and it was thick. But far from enough to hide what was underneath, the faint earthy floral scent of a night elf clashing could be noted. 

More information was provided about the rough age and whether the last meal was more meat or fruit. But ultimately, that was blown away by a single.

I recognized it had, and it had been awfully long since his cowardly departure.

“I knew you survived…” I mumbled, a sense of relief thwarting my anger to ember as a complicated smile came to my muzzle. There was disappointment with guilt, too, but that wasn't new.

But I wasn't blinded by either. 

It wasn't random; Vashj wasn't having a visit from Vandel right then and now by pure randomness. Otherwise, there would be more demon hunters.

She had him come to attempt to stop me.

It was clever if basic, but plans with few moving parts were often the best. And it explained much of the oddities I encountered till now.

Cute, really. If anything, I was thankful, it made a senseless chase that would have likely ended nowhere to be dismantled here and there. 

My pace increased to a full-on sprint, my paws splintering the ground on my way. I was fully aware of potential traps, but I merely judged them to be of no noticeable threat.

Not that there was any, as I tore the left door of a giant bronze entrance opening to a large empty room, barring the usual murals of various stones, gems, and minerals creating quite the tapestry.

Alas, my entire focus was on the two presents, a naga unlike any I had seen; she had a head full of living snakes and three pairs of arms. A bow was in hand with arrows of mana in another, ready to fire or cast spells.

The second was far more interesting, the tallest and bulkiest night elf that had ever caught my eye. Calling him an elf wasn't right, though. He was a seemingly stable amalgamation of the former, a variety of demon, and a Fel-touched spirit of nature.

Odd, very, alarmingly so, but his treant symbiote wasn't dead. She was merged? I felt her–Elariel–he hadn't killed her, but she had changed. They had changed; I barely recognized him.

The horns… mix of antlers, thorns, and actual horns, vaguely draconic wings with barks spouting from the shoulders, clawed, scaled hands, and a long tail covered in bone plates ending in a blade.

He was an anomaly. His existence broke what should be impossible, but he was real. He was running on stubbornness, rage, hate, sorrow, and misery. I didn't like that I could emphasize so much.

Then there were the eyes, or the lack thereof. But I could still know what was happening, something was gone, something not even the death of his cub and mate took.

It wasn't the Vandel I knew, but it was him; some part was left, the silver pendant around his neck was too clean and in good condition to say otherwise.

“Vandel… long time no see,” I growled, fangs bared as I stood to my full height, three times that of my old friend.

“Likewise, Ohto. You have changed...” He answered, his soft voice now rough and clipped with a growl of his own.

I waited no longer.

My left arm snapped with my full force there and then. 

Blood rich in sap that had been pressurized through special chambers in tandem with dried wood, hard bones, and tendons stretched to their limit were let loose with that harsh motion. 

The result was a loud boom from the air, cracking as my paw was torn off, and like a missile, I flew to my wholly shocked target. She barely had the time to scream, only widen her eyes and choke.

Her shields were strong. But my claws coated in my mana with its momentum were far stronger, and she ended up impaled with them on the faraway wall. 

It shattered from the impact, as did her spine and most of her organs, but she wouldn't die. I wouldn’t allow such a sweet release, and she wasn't a fragile, dainty princess.

“Now… I can strangle you with your guts in peace.” I enunciated matter-of-factly as I clenched the rapidly regrowing hand, the red tissues, bones, and tendons shining under the fake light.